


Consequences of a stupid mistake

by SinsAndTriggers



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Heavy Dubcon, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Past suicide attempts (referenced), Physical Abuse, Regret, Sexual Content, other languages- Norwegian/Danish, traitor au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9641384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinsAndTriggers/pseuds/SinsAndTriggers
Summary: Traitor au in which Patryk is emotionally torn by Paul's death, and Red Leader Tord is only trying to help, in all the wrong ways for all the wrong reasons.- Patryk knows Danish, and Tord speaks Norwegian.





	

_"Shoot him down."_

_The words rang in his ears as he lowered the barrel of the gun. He couldn't pull the trigger. He couldn't._

_"Pat, just **shoot me**!"_

_"I can't. I just can't . . ." The gun lowered further, still gripped in his hands._

_"You disobey a direct order?" He closed his eyes, he knew what was going to happen. "Then you will be the first to die. Skitten forræder avskum."_

_He heard the distinct click of the gun behind him, his eyes cast to the ground._

Patryk held his head in his hands, sitting on the bed he and his deceased lover had shared. Memories flooded through him, causing his eyes to grow hot. A familiar sting of the very beginning of tears pricked at his eyes. He knew he shouldn't be thinking of 'him'. If Tord found out . . . 

He gripped his hair with his hands, resisting the urge to cry- again. 'He' was always on the pilot's mind, ever since he pulled that trigger. _He_ pulled the trigger. Not the Commander, not one of the other soldiers. He did. 

Guilt wracked through his body, the body he'd been neglecting. He forgot to eat, drink, or even do anything physically- or psychologically- demanding unless someone specifically told him to. And more often than not, that person was Tord. 

 

He hadn't heard the Red Leader approach. He was too absorbed in memories, happy memories this time. Memories that took place in this very room, when 'he' was still here. When he could feel 'his' arms around him. He never let any of the memories grow faint, in fear of losing what he had left of him. 

All too suddenly, there was a knock on the door, the familiar sound of metal knuckles rapping on the wood. "Patryk," came Tord's voice, "Jeg kommer inn." He looked up, knowing he looked like a wreak, meeting the familiar man's cold gaze. His eyes were bloodshot as he tried not to break down again, biting the inside of his cheek.

"What's wrong?" The question was cold, toneless, uncaring. Tord's single eye narrowed slightly as he looked over the weak male. He despised how weak he was now. He seemed to be worse off every time he saw Patryk. It made him sick, it made him angry. 

He'd vowed he'd make the pilot forget about Paul even if he had to kill him in the end. 

Patryk was quick to answer, as always. He knew what happened if he wasn't. "I just- Just remembering." The cold look in Tord's eye hardened, his gaze narrowing further. He knew what Pat was 'remembering', and he was tired of it. "You're thinking of that traitor, aren't you." It wasn't a question. It was a hidden demand of _'Why are you thinking of that traitor'_.

The pilot cast his gaze to the ground, guilt piercing through him. "Yes, sir, I was." He bit his lip as Tord approached, standing in front of him. He could sense the Commander's irritation- no, irritation was too weak a word. He winced softly when Tord yanked his hair to force him to look at him. He let go after a few moments, scoffing. "Stand up, Pilot."

He did as told with an obedient 'Yes, sir.' He stood up, posture straight and his eyes forward, meeting that of his shorter Commander's own. Tord inched closer, and Patryk tensed up on reflex, but all he did was take a firm hold on the taller male's chin. He relaxed some, and the Red Commander grinned faintly, only slightly.

"You're not to think about him." Despite the not-quite rough grip, the brunette's tone was as harsh as ever. Pat bit the inside of his cheek, his heart pounding. Tord loosened his grip on the soldier, looking him over with an unreadable expression. "Svak." He murmured under his breath.

Tord wasn't one for empathy. He never was. Seeing his pilot like this churned his guts in a way he hated. He hated Paul, he blamed Paul for doing this to Patryk. _His_ Patryk. He was his pilot, his soldier. And Paul was dead, dead at the hands of Patryk. So Tord couldn't understand why he was still torn up. 

"He'd dead." He hissed, not once mentioning 'his' name. He wanted Patryk to forget that name, at all costs. "He's gone, there's no use dwelling on it." This was just the start of the psychological torment he could put Patryk through. It was all to toughen him up again, to make him into a better soldier than he'd been before. 

The soldier nodded, as expected, with another "Yes, sir." He couldn't help but still mourn over his lover, the lover he'd executed. Traitor or not, he'd loved Paul, and he _knew_ Paul had loved him back. He couldn't have faked all those nights together. There was no way. Right?

Tord believed otherwise. "He used you. A perfect human shield." He noticed the flinch, that was exactly what Paul had said. His words seemed to echo in Patryk's ears. _"He was never a part of this. I used him. A perfect human shield . . . "_

"He used you to fit in here, used you so he wouldn't be suspected of treason. That is, until he slipped up." Tord had a note of contempt in his voice, but whether that contempt was for Patryk or for Paul wasn't clear. Perhaps it was for both, it wouldn't be beneath him. 

Tears burned at the tall male's eyes and he shook his head, "N- no, he loved me. And I loved him." His voice was quiet, as if he was scared to say it out loud to Tord. Which, he actually was. Tord's eye narrowed, barely wider than halfway. "You don't know that," he growled, his mouth twitching into a scowl. His robotic arm grabbed the front of Patryk's shirt, pulling him closer, if possible. Patryk couldn't, and certainly wouldn't, resist him. He seemed to study Pat with that same look of contempt, and suddenly it was hard to breathe. 

Tord scoffed under his breath, murmuring something in Norwegian that Patryk couldn't quite catch. He pushed the taller man against the wall, albeit with force that probably wasn't necessary, pinning him. He looked up at his little soldier, his glare lessening. It didn't help his racing heart though. Tord took a hold on his hair once again, yanking it to get his face comfortably close. 

Close enough to force a kiss upon him. 

Patryk tensed up all over again, unable to move all that well. Of course Tord noticed. The Commander placed his other hand on Patryk's hip, gripping it hard enough to bruise. He knew that too, he wasn't stupid. He was purposely rough with him, and knew how his words were like razors from his sharp tongue. If he was like this, then Patryk would strengthen up again, and become twice the soldier he'd ever been. 

Or, that was the plan. 

If it didn't work, or if Patryk threatened his well-being, Tord always carried at least one gun with him. 

He'd simply have to erase Pat entirely.

The kiss wasn't romantic. No, it was dominant, possessive, and it composed of bruising force, and Tord's teeth biting and clashing against the other's lips. He was used to it by now, used to the romanceless intimacy Tord gave him in this fucked up relationship of theirs, so unlike how Paul had treated him. His chest constricted at the thought. He didn't want to move on, but he wished he could.

He couldn't, not with what Tord was giving him. He didn't need this. 

He needed Paul, or someone who would treat him like Paul had. 

Tord growled, breaking off the kiss and pulling away entirely from Pat. He knew what Patryk was thinking about, it was the same thing he ever thought about, even when in the presence of the Red Leader. "What did I say?" He hissed, eye narrowed to a slit. If Patryk always drew into his own thoughts, where Tord couldn't enter . . . "You're to put your otherwise useless vocal chords to use, and you're to say everything you're thinking. Gjør jeg meg klar?" 

His eyes widened but the previously pinned man nodded, "Yes, sir." His voice was quiet, he knew if he'd said everything he was thinking, Tord would lose patience with him much quicker than he had been. Maybe he'd even put that gun to his head, and shoot him. He didn't want to die. 

He was scared to die. 

"Good." Was all Tord said, keeping that narrowed gaze on Pat before leaning in closer to him and sliding a hand up his shirt. If he could've, the dark brunette would've tensed further, but that was pretty much impossible at this point. Tears burned at his eyes all over again as Tord began biting at what of his neck was exposed, not mindful of his teeth, his robot hand now gripping his hip, tighter than before. 

He hated being so conflicted. 

He hated allowing Tord to do this, he felt as if he was doing something wrong to Paul. But he craved it, he craved Tord's touch because he knew it was the only touch he had anymore, Paul was dead and gone and it was his fault. He desired love, he needed to be needed. He wanted to be loved, as Paul had loved him. He didn't love Tord, he knew he didn't. He didn't love the only lover he had, as twisted as their relationship may or may not be. He craved it though, he craved being needed and he craved being worth it to someone like he had been to Paul. He needed someone there to keep him sane, as insane as he seemed to be becoming. 

And Tord was all he had anymore.

This time, tears did fill his eyes and his mind buzzed with unspoken thought and desire as Tord yanked him into another rough kiss. He bit Pat's lower lip, not caring he clamped tight enough to have the metallic iron taste arise from his skin. He couldn't do this anymore. The moment Tord had pulled away, the pilot broke down into tears. It took the Commander by surprise but he didn't show it, watching him through a narrowed eye. 

"Jeg ønsker ikke at gøre dette længere. Jeg savner ham så meget, jeg har brug for en som ham, jeg har brug for at blive elsket som han havde, og det er ikke. . . det er ikke, hvad jeg har brug for. Jeg har brug for ham. Jeg har brug for Paul." He managed between sobs. It took Tord a moment but he scowled, his hand sliding into the pocket that held the loaded gun. He pulled it out, making sure Patryk could hear the familiar _click_ of the gun. 

"Paul er borte. Han er død. Han er død, og du drepte ham. Han kommer ikke tilbake. Jeg er alt du har nå." He growled, placing the gun to the sobbing male's chest. He could only nod weakly, repeating, "Han er død, jeg dræbte ham. Jeg dræbte ham." 

Tord didn't move to take the gun from his chest, nor did he pull his finger from the trigger. He allowed Patryk a few moments to compose himself. "That's right," He whispered, though his voice was once again filled with contempt. "It's your fault he's dead. You killed him." He watched as the other just nodded his head. "He didn't love you. He said you were just a way to fit in. He _used_ you."

Patryk went numb. He never wanted to think about that, he always insisted when Paul said that he'd just used Patryk as a human shield it was just to push him to pull that trigger, so the Commander didn't pull his. So that Patryk would keep living, instead of dying with the traitor. The traitor he'd loved. But now, he wasn't sure anymore. Tord had broken his already shattered mind to the point where maybe Tord was right. Maybe everything Patryk had convinced himself these past months was just . . . lies. 

He didn't look up as he murmured, "Han brugte mig." He finally broke, he finally believed what his Leader had been telling him. Tord only watched, and nodded once. He pulled the gun away, slowly, but was still prepared to pull the trigger if need be. "He used you." He agreed, his voice cold and hard as stone. "You were just a shield for him. En perfekt levende skjold."

The pilot nodded weakly. "A perfect human shield," he repeated. He looked so out of place next to the Red Leader, he was a shadow of the pilot he once was. He was too frail now, there was an emptiness in his brown eyes that had previously been filled with a lost look. He straightened his posture, and he opened his eyes to look at his leader.

Tord pushed away the small pang of sympathy he felt toward the broken soldier. He'd be able to move on from Paul now, he'd be able to become the soldier he once was. He'd be able to become stronger. He didn't need the 'love' of that traitor, and Tord would make sure Patryk never forgot that. 

Tord nodded once, sliding his weapon back into his pocket. He looked over the man before him, a hard look in his emerald eye. He was disappointed in Pat, he was disappointed it took so long. He was disappointed his pilot let himself change so much over a traitor. But most of all, he was disappointed he'd let the traitor's execution bother him so much. "You don't need him," he said, his voice as hard as his gaze. "You can become so much better now. You can become the soldier you once were." And he expected him to. If he didn't? There was always a simple solution.

Patryk nodded, a simple, quiet 'yes, sir' coming from him with ease. Tord nodded once in return, huffing through his nose. Now . . . "On your knees, soldier." He demanded, the hard tone never once leaving his voice. The pilot nodded, immediately following through with the order. Now that he wasn't constantly thinking of Paul, he'd already began falling into old habits drilled into him in his training days; he still had a sense of hesitation about him. He was a blend of old and new. That would have to change. 

"You know what to do," The order came simply, as the Red Leader cast his gold gaze upon the Pilot. The later nodded, his face emotionless as he lifted his hands to his Commander's waist. He unbuckled the belt buckle in front of him before unbuttoning his pants, pulling the garment down slightly. Next came Tord's boxers, sliding down to expose his dick. The Red Leader's face was void of all emotion, keeping his steely emerald gaze on the broken pilot in front of him. He didn't move, didn't flinch nor made a sound as Pat wrapped his hand around his dick, stroking him. He wasn't quick with it, but he didn't draw it out- he knew Tord didn't like buildup, and he didn't want to anger the Commander. 

He pumped his hand steadily, keeping up the same pace for a good while. It was only until the metal hand tugged on his hair and the soft growl from the man above him reached his ears did he stop. He cast his gaze up to meet his Commander's emerald one, and watched as his lips barked the order, "Suck me."

He nodded, his eyes closing. He leaned in, dragging his tongue up the underside of his partner's dick. He could feel the slight shudder that passed up Tord's spine. He would've smiled, but figured it would've been better if he kept his face blank. He took Tord's tip into his mouth, sucking on it softly.

Tord closed his eye, making sure he didn't make a sound. If he was honest with himself, he was slightly surprised it was so easy to get the Pilot going. It usually took more to get him there, but Tord wasn't complaining. That just meant he was already moving on from the _traitor_. The sooner he did, the better. Patryk had been one of his most trusted soldiers, as was Paul. He'd been convinced Pat was a traitor too, but after killing Paul, his suspicions died down. He still kept a close eye on him, even catching him hesitating to pull his own trigger. Tord had been pissed beyond anything he'd been before, making sure he drilled his words, accompanied by more physical forms of toughening him up, into Patryk's head. 

Very few times had he dared even look at the gun afterwards. 

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a noise. This was nothing, he reminded, cracking his eye open to watch the dark brunette take more of him in, his own brown eyes closed. 

It wasn't long before he felt a hot coil begin forming. "Get up," He said with the same hard tone, causing Patryk to tense before pulling off him, with a simple "Yes, Sir." He stood, swallowing once as he straightened and looked down at his shorter Leader. "Turn around, and drop your pants." The pilot nodded obediently, turning to face the wall he'd been pinned at just previously as he unbuckled his own belt and let his pants drop to the floor. He kicked them away, his face heating up only slightly. 

He felt rough hands on his body. The touch was dominant, possessive even. He shivered as the cold metal of his leader's right hand slid up into his shirt. The other gripped his hips tightly- almost tight enough to bruise him. He placed his forearms on the wall in front of him, keeping his eyes closed as his Commander touched him. His mind didn't once stray to Paul, he didn't imagine Paul's touch instead of Tord's. No, he focused instead on how Tord handled him, how he touched and gripped and dominated him. He'd never dream of telling him 'no', in fear of being killed, or worse. 

Very few got away with their lives telling Tord no, and barely any mentally stable after.

He ground himself against the Pilot's ass, enticing a soft noise from the soldier. He smirked faintly, his gaze wandering over his slightly trembling body. He knew Patryk was in the palm of his hands and he rather preferred it that way. It's gotten to the point where he'd be able to mold Patryk to the perfect obedient soldier, Tord suspected. And it was in Patryk's best interest that he did.

Patryk kept his eyes closed, his body tense. Rigid, almost. It wasn't intentional. No, it was instinct; the moment Tord growled at him, angered by his stiffness, he forced himself to relax. The hands were off him, and he felt strangely alone the moment they were. No, he didn't love Tord, he was only his Commander, but he was too attached. Tord was all he had. 

The Red Leader rolled his eye, letting the slip up go this once. At least he'd been improving, he'd finally accepted Paul never loved him. That the shorter of the duo pilots was merely a traitor, and had tried to kill the Commander when his back was turned. 

Tord hated that he hadn't caught him before hand, that he hadn't seen the signs.

And of course, he'd immediately expected Pat to be a traitor too. After all, the partners were constantly seen together, more often than the other partners or squads would be seen together. His suspicions increased when, before he'd called Patryk to the execution hall, he found the ring in Paul's possession. He was going to propose. Such a shame he'd decided to try assassinating his Leader, wasn't it? The thought brought a smirk to his face as he once again allowed his emerald green eye to glaze over the body he'd seen multiple times before. 

Of course, this was just to help Patryk. To make him get over the traitor, to make him become the perfect soldier he once had been, before he allowed _this_ to happen to his body. Seeing him like this almost made Tord sick- no, it _did_ make him sick. Sick and angry, at Pat, at Paul . . . and even at himself. But of course, he buried the anger he felt toward himself, just as he had those other feelings he'd ignored. Feelings like those were unnecessary, unneeded. Especially in an army. 

He reached forward, hooking his fingers of the metal hand around the waistband of his pilot's boxers. He tugged- well, more like yanked- them down, not too worried about ripping them or anything. He shouldn't care, after all. It wasn't any of his concern. He had bigger things to be concerned about, he had en entire army to worry about.

Patryk didn't fight it; he didn't react much at all. He knew what Tord wanted, and he knew he'd do what he wanted nonetheless. Not that Pat was necessarily against it at this point. He rested his forehead on his arms as he felt his leader's head pushing against him. Tord rarely, if ever, used lubrication. It had taken the soldier by surprise the first time, as Paul always used lube to ensure he was thoroughly stretched before he slid in, so he didn't harm his lover. It was one of the many differences between Tord and Paul. 

Pat was well aware of every single one. 

He choked back a wince as he felt the burning sensation signifying that Tord had pushed himself in. He was never much into foreplay, after all. The Leader buried as much of himself as he could into the taller man, leaning over his back to place both his hands on the wall on either side of Pat to pin him there. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to get away from his Commander. He didn't give the pilot much time to adjust. 

Tears burned at his closed eyes as he felt the other man's dick move. He pulled out until just the tip remained, then pushed himself back in. He was rather gentle the first few times, for Patryk, before he sped up, becoming rougher and more dominant with his movements. Patryk let out a few small noises here and there, though you wouldn't be able to tell what they were exactly meant to _be_. Tord paid no attention to what they possibly meant, instead on the fact that he was able to pull noises from the pilot; he had always been rather quiet while doing anything intimate with anyone. 

Tord aimed for the day he could make Patryk scream his name.

Soon enough the burning ebbed down, making the previously tense male relax slightly under the shorter. This caused a small grin to spread across Tord's lips, and they peeled back on one side to flash a manually sharpened canine. He angled his movements so he purposely hit Patryk's prostate, making the taller of the two tremble and make a noise somewhere between a moan and a sigh. The metal arm let go of the pilot's right hand, dipping back down his body to wrap around his dick instead. The cold that enveloped him made him shiver, and a soft, almost undetectable whisper slipped out of him. 

Tord narrowed his eyes, giving a rough squeeze and snap of his hips, hissing, "What was that?" He had just herd a single syllable, and he knew that 'Paul' was similarly enunciated. Patryk cried out softly, repeating louder, "Tord-" It wasn't Paul's name, nor was it any of his aliases or even just 'Red Leader'; caused Tord to halt in his movements for a few split moments, stunned. He'd never have thought Pat would've said his name first, if anything he'd assumed it was the name of the deceased traitor. Hearing his real name slide off Patryk's tongue made him feel something he hadn't let himself in a long time, though he pushed it aside immediately. He rather liked it though, he had to admit. He resumed his previous movements, stroking him off in time with his thrusts, abusing his prostate all the while. 

It took all Pat had to keep himself upright; he couldn't focus properly with the hits to that spot inside him, and his head was focused on _Tord_ and how _Tord_ made him feel. He was a trembling mess, his soft panting accompanied by short moans and various noises of the like. All too soon, Tord felt the hot coils in his gut, and he responded by biting Pat's shoulder- not enough to bleed, or even break skin, though he easily could had he wanted to. He thought he felt the soldier flinch, but he wasn't too sure, nor did he pay too much mind to it. It was probably nothing. 

In all actuality, Patryk did flinch. He never liked biting, hair pulling, degrading . . . anything of that nature he was against. He never voiced it, not to Tord. He was almost certain Tord wouldn't have cared even if he did, and he thought it best he just kept quiet and deal with it as it happened. Which he did, of course. Whatever to make Tord happy, and keep from executing him.

He was scared to die.

He didn't focus on those thoughts, instead his mind was blanked. He couldn't focus on much, and when he felt the familiar sensation of being filled he opened his eyes only slightly, moaning under his breath. He couldn't focus on anything in particular, everything was fuzzy and almost distant. Tord, meanwhile, made some sort of noise somewhere between a grunt and a moan or another noise in the same spectrum, his hips grinding against Patryk's to ensure he was as deep as he could get in the pilot's ass. He basked in the orgasm glow, holding Pat like that until it wore off. 

He pulled out of the soldier, his eye glancing up and down his body as a smirk came to his face. "Good boy," He purred out smugly, fixing his pants but leaving his belt. He watched his cum leak slowly from the other before stepping away, allowing the pilot to compose himself. He was just about to tell Patryk to clean himself up but the taller of the two drew himself up, turning to Tord with an unreadable look in his otherwise empty brown orbs. 

"Jeg ønsker ikke at være alene," he whispered softly, frowning faintly. "I don't want to be alone," he repeated, quieter, as Tord furrowed his eyebrows. His initial response would have been 'I'll assign you a new roommate', until the pilot before him continued, "Don't leave, please." 

Tord was quiet for a few moments, seemingly thinking it over. In reality, he was stunned. Not once had Patryk ever asked him to stay, no matter what he did. He composed himself, as a Leader should be, and merely replied with a 'Fix your pants, soldier,' and an almost undetectable nod of his head. He'd stay, if only for a little while. At least until Pat had slipped into unconsciousness, then he'd leave. He had other matters to attend to, after all.

Patryk pulled his boxers back up, grabbing his discarded pants before sliding them on as well and following Tord to the mattress. The general sat on one end, and the soldier sat- well, half sat, half laid- down beside him, on the other side. He couldn't help wrapping an arm around his Leader; he knew this was all he had now, he understood. The most he could do is just accept it.

The General allowed the taller of the two to hold onto him, albeit tensing and his robotic hand inching closer to the weapon resting in his coat. It was instinct, mostly. Urge. He knew Patryk wouldn't dare attempt to harm him, Pat wouldn't be able to. He smirked at the thought. 

Before he realized it, the pilot had fallen into almost a coma-like sleep, his grip on his waist lessening significantly. With a heaved sigh the Commander stood, pulling him from the other's grip. The sleeping man stirred only slightly, not waking. The sound of the shorter's boots against the floor was the only noise, beside the soft breathing of the two of them. Once he reached the door, his metal hand on the knob, he turned his head, his only good eye glancing Patryk over before he opened the door. 

He left without a word, to attend to duties.

And to rid his mind of these troubling thoughts.

 

Patryk wasn't surprised to find he was alone in the morning. This time he got up, and for the first time in months, prepared to go to work.


End file.
